


Unconditional

by CarolineShea



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarolineShea/pseuds/CarolineShea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Blaine's parents are awful, Blaine tries to understand what makes him so unlovable, and Kurt tries to love Blaine in all the ways his parents won't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconditional

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! I wrote most of this forever ago (S3) and then fiddled it with it again at the beginning of S4 and it is now wildly divergent from canon (especially now that we've been shown evidence in 'Shooting Star' that Blaine's parents do care about him). BUT. I think a lot of the issues Blaine is facing were ones we saw hints of even back when I wrote this... so I have polished it up and am presenting it as a short Blaine character study of sorts. Please enjoy!

  


  
**Unconditional**

  
  


Kurt _knows_ , in the split second of time it takes for Blaine to open the door to his dorm and cross the room's threshold, how the evening had played out.

 

He'd suspected when he'd heard Blaine's footsteps trudging along the faded carpeting of the hallway. He'd been nearly certain when he'd heard the weary, creaking twist of Blaine's key in the lock. But the second Kurt sees him, everything about him - from the dejected slope of his shoulders to the fact that he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his costume – confirms his worst fears.

 

Maybe Kurt should have expected this; maybe they both should have. It’s no secret that Blaine’s relationship with his parents is strained, and Blaine’s grudging agreement to study business instead of music is still a strong source of contention. But… well, it had just seemed like such a _good_ sign when they’d offered to come see the musical.

 

Mr. Anderson had been scheduled to attend a conference in New York, and it had happened to coincide with the second weekend of Grease’s three-week run.  Blaine had been double-cast in the role of Danny, sharing the lead with an almost disconcertingly low-key drama major named Charlie Lovelace.  Blaine and Charlie alternate the role for the show’s twelve performances, each boy playing Danny one night and singing in the chorus the next.

 

Tonight had been a Danny night for Blaine - and he’d been a nervous wreck the entire week, knowing that his parents would be in the audience on Saturday evening.  Kurt and Blaine had discussed the logistics of the visit several weeks ago and they’d agreed that Kurt would sit out this particular performance. They’d both _hoped_ that the Andersons would want to spend some time with their son after the show, and if it seemed like things were going well, Blaine would ask if they wanted to have brunch with him and Kurt the following morning.

 

Kurt had been cautiously optimistic about tonight. But it’s obvious now that any amount of optimism was too reckless for the situation, because his boyfriend is standing in the doorway looking exhausted and upset and resigned and _bitter_ , which can really only mean that…

 

“…they didn’t like it?” The question spills out of Kurt involuntarily, in a breathless, horrified whisper.

 

Blaine slides the deadbolt into place behind him and leans against the cheap wood-veneer of the dorm room door, his head bowed. The serious set of his face is incongruous with his appearance; he’s still looking every inch Danny Zuko at the moment, from the black boots to the black leather jacket to his greased-up, slicked-back hair.

 

“I wouldn’t know,” he says flatly. “They didn’t come.”

 

Kurt’s fingers curl reflexively around the fabric of the shirt he’d been tailoring.  “They… didn’t come,” he repeats dumbly.

 

Blaine folds his arms across his chest, still leaning against the door frame, his face impassive in the dorm’s dim lighting.

 

“I… I just don’t understand,” says Kurt, bewildered. “What happened? The last time we talked to them, they already had their hotel booked. Did the conference… get canceled? Did their flight - ?”

 

Blaine’s jaw tightens. “They made it to New York. They’re here.” He draws his cell phone out of his pocket, taps the screen, and angles the phone toward Kurt, who steps forward until he’s close enough to read the text message: _Sorry, got caught up with friends. Maybe catch up tmrw before we leave, break a leg._

 

He has to read it several times before the full import of it sinks in. By the time he has fully processed it, Blaine is already setting the cell phone on his desk and shrugging the leather jacket off his shoulders, balling it up and tossing it onto his bed in an uncharacteristically haphazard manner.

 

Kurt’s first instinct is to offer physical comfort, soothing a hand across Blaine’s face or rubbing gently at his shoulders, but Blaine’s body language suggests that such a gesture would not be welcome at the moment. Kurt stands stock-still instead, watching as Blaine unzips his messenger bag and digs through it, taking out his wallet, his stage make-up, a few playbills from the night’s performance, and a half-empty Snapple bottle. He puts everything away quickly, avoiding Kurt’s eyes as he slaps his wallet on his nightstand and shoves the drink into his mini-fridge. Blaine’s movements around the cylinder-blocked cell of his single dorm remind Kurt of a trapped animal, agitatedly circling the confines of its cage.

 

Kurt’s eyes dart from Blaine to the phone sitting innocuously on the desk and he closes his eyes, trying to tamp down the anxious churning in his stomach. He hadn’t noted the time-stamp on the text, but he can’t help but wonder just _when_ Blaine had received it.

 

He plays the scenario in his mind both ways: Blaine getting the message right before he has to perform - dragging himself through the show, trying to smile and sing as though nothing is wrong, knowing his parents don’t even think he’s worth three hours of their time and the cost of cab fare (Blaine had paid for both of their tickets in advance). Or Blaine, putting on the show of his life - pushing himself to be perfect, giving it everything he has, trying to prove how _good_ he is and how _much_ he wants this, scanning the audience for two faces that aren’t there, bounding hopefully out of the greenroom after the performance only to discover that  -

 

Kurt exhales, feeling vaguely nauseous. He’s not going to ask which it was. He’d rather not know and it’s awful either way.

 

“Blaine,” he says, reaching a hand out to touch Blaine’s shoulder and sounding to his own ears as helpless as he feels. “I’m so, so sorry about tonight. I can’t imagine what you must be-"

 

Blaine shrugs off the hand, which does sting, even if Kurt _had_ seen it coming a mile away. “Not now, please,” says Blaine irritably. The stricken look on Kurt’s face must show, because Blaine sighs heavily and says in a somewhat gentler tone, “It’s not you. Come on, you know it’s not you, Kurt. I’m just – angry about tonight. I think I’m allowed to be.”

 

Kurt swallows, throat dry. “You are, yeah.”

 

Blaine crosses the room and starts assembling his shower supplies, tossing his body wash, shaving cream, and razor into his shower caddy with more force than necessary. “It’s late,” he says flatly as he pulls open the bureau drawer containing his nightclothes. “I’m tired. And somehow I’m managing to be pissed at them for not showing up _and_ pissed at myself for thinking that they actually would. I was insane to get my hopes up. I should have just said no when they asked to come.”

 

Kurt watches him angrily fling a towel over his shoulder. Blaine yanks his shower caddy off the bureau and a bottle of conditioner goes flying out of the basket. He swears viciously as it hits the floor and Kurt winces - he knows Blaine isn’t upset with him, but it’s still awful to see him like this.

 

Blaine bends to scoop up the conditioner, throws it back into the shower caddy, and crosses the room. “I’m taking a shower,” he announces unnecessarily, his hand already twisting the doorknob.

 

“Okay,” says Kurt. “Do you want me to go back to the loft or would you rather I -”

 

The door clicks shut as Blaine begins stalking down the hall toward the third-floor men’s bathroom.

 

“– stay here tonight?” Kurt asks the empty room, shaking his head in mute exasperation.

 

But the second his eyes sweep over Blaine’s desk, he finds his gaze resting on Blaine’s cell phone again, and his exasperation all but fades.

 

Kurt closes his eyes, rubbing at his temples wearily, and he admits to himself that Blaine had been right about something:  This honestly shouldn’t have shocked either of them.

 

Not after this year’s eleven-days-late-and-utterly-impersonal birthday gift.

 

Not after Blaine’s freshman-year winter break, when after not seeing their son in person for three months, Blaine had received a short email from his mother: _Unfortunately, we made our holiday plans without consulting your school schedule and it looks like we’ll just miss each other. Maybe we can make plans to visit you in New York once the new semester starts. Give our best to Kirk and his family._

 

Kurt clenches his fists tightly and thinks back to the first time he’d truly become _acquainted_ with Blaine’s parents – three years ago, in the McKinley auditorium.  They hadn’t physically attended the performance of West Side Story, of course, but they’d been there all the same: Invisible hands pushing their son to practice a dance spin that hadn’t been completed to perfection; hovering, unseen, between the words ‘I hope so,’ and ‘I want you to be.’

 

This had set the course for most of Kurt’s interactions with the Andersons. They make their presence felt mostly through their absence, conspicuous in all the places that they _aren’t_.

 

They exist in the negative space around Blaine - the empty chairs at glee club competitions, the invariably empty house in Westerville, the unreturned phone calls.

 

They’re the reason Blaine sets such high expectations for himself, the reason he pushes himself so hard to meet them, and the reason he’s _furious_ with himself on the rare occasions he misses the mark. They’re the reason Kurt will wake up at three in the morning some nights to find the other side of the bed cold and empty. Blaine will have left hours ago, of course, pounding out everything he keeps bottled up all day on a punching bag at the campus gym.

 

Kurt _knows_ they’re the reason that nearly every time he and Blaine have a serious fight, Blaine walks away from him.

 

And they’re the reason that every time he comes back, Blaine has it in his head that _this is it. **This** is the thing I’ve done that will make you stop loving me._

 

The fact that Blaine still thinks that, even after all this time, makes Kurt wonder whether or not he’s failing Blaine.

 

It also makes Kurt wonder whether Blaine has simply been failed too many times for his efforts to make a difference.

 

_0000_

_0000_

_0000_

 

Kurt can't help but wish for a better assortment of furniture in Blaine’s room. He would rather not settle himself in on Blaine's bed (given that he’s not even sure Blaine will want him to stay) and the dorm-issue desk chair with the wobbly front leg isn’t a particularly appealing alternative.

 

After a minute or two of pointless pacing, Kurt opts for the desk chair. He attempts to work on the shirt he’d been tailoring earlier, but after having to redo an entire row of stitching and stabbing himself with the needle twice, he is forced to concede defeat.

 

Kurt sets the shirt aside and logs onto Blaine’s laptop, more because he needs something to do than because he needs to check anything. He narrows his eyes at the too-cheery Google logo that pops up and clicks on the search engine box. He drums his fingers lightly on the keyboard for a moment, lost in thought, before slowly and deliberately stabbing out four words with his index finger: _why… do… people… suck?_

 

He hovers his finger dramatically over the return key before pressing it with a satisfying flourish, and then spends the next several minutes scrolling through the spectacularly unhelpful websites his search has yielded.

 

Kurt checks his email next. Luckily for his mood, there's an unopened message from his dad in his inbox. It's short and upbeat - just a quick overview of Burt's week at the shop and at home, and a reminder to pick a weekend for the family to celebrate Kurt's upcoming birthday. Kurt has just typed out the first few words of his reply email, when -

 

"I'm sorry."

Kurt turns around quickly. Blaine is standing in the doorway in his black-and-gray striped pajama pants and a forest-green t-shirt, looking freshly scrubbed, sleepy, and not a little contrite.

 

Kurt lets Blaine's words hang in the air for a moment. Blaine's amber eyes stay fixed on Kurt, but he makes no move to cross the threshold.

 

"Me, too," says Kurt finally. "I mean, not for - I don't think I did anything wrong. But I'm sorry about what happened tonight. What they did to you was unbelievably shitty and I don't blame you for lashing out a little at me, since you can't exactly lash out at them."

 

"I never could, you know," says Blaine, who had apparently taken Kurt's words as permission to enter the room.

 

"Never could what?"

 

"Lash out at them," says Blaine quietly, crossing over to his bureau to set the shower caddy down before tossing his towel into the hamper. "I mean, we fought when I was younger definitely, but once I came out, it was like - I don't know. Things became so strained and then after the Sadie Hawkins dance..."

 

Blaine trails off, looking uncertain.

 

"After the Sadie Hawkins dance...?" Kurt prompts gently.

 

"Well," continues Blaine slowly, "it was weird. I was sure we were going to have a big fight afterward. You know how you can feel the tension building before a blow-up? I spent days just waiting for them to explode, waiting for them to tell me that the fight was my fault and that I'd brought it on myself for flaunting my sexuality... all the things I just _knew_ they were thinking. And I was ready for it. I _wanted_ them to say that to my face - so that I could scream right back at them that no matter what they'd convinced themselves, ignoring the fact that I'm gay doesn't count as being supportive."

 

"But... you never did?"

 

Blaine shakes his head. "We never did. We found other ways of making our views known - a lot of passive-aggressive _crap_ and a ton of convoluted mind-games that I'm glad you never had to learn to play - and then it kind of got to the point where if we weren't saying what we really felt, then... there wasn't much of a point in talking at all. I think..."

 

Blaine pauses and nods slowly to himself. "In retrospect, I think we should have had that big blow-out fight my freshman year. It wouldn't have stopped my parents from being assholes and it wouldn't have changed much, maybe. But it might have stopped us from feeling like... like we've all been holding our breath for the last four years. That's how I've felt, anyway."

 

Kurt never imagined that he would find himself feeling grateful for the fights he and his dad have had throughout the years. But he's realizing now what it means - that his relationship with his dad is strong enough to withstand conflict.

 

"And I'm sorry for being such a mess tonight," says Blaine, brushing the wet hair back from his face.

 

Kurt shakes his head in protest, but Blaine continues haltingly. "I think... it's hitting me so hard because I always thought... well, I just always thought there was _something_ I could do. I didn’t know what it was, but I told myself if I just kept trying, then maybe one day..."

 

"Oh, god, honey," whispers Kurt, heartsick over what he’s hearing. "Come here." Kurt stretches a tentative hand out toward Blaine, palm up, as though coaxing an anxious creature out of hiding. Blaine takes Kurt's hand and allows himself to be drawn onto the bed and into the warm circle of Kurt's arms.

 

“I tried everything I could think of," Blaine continues, sounding very tired. "My attitude. My grades. My _major_. But now I think I’ve finally figured it out and it’s just – for me to be straight. That’s the only thing they want.” Blaine lets out a weary breath. “And I can’t give that to them. Even if I wanted to, which I’m not saying I do… but it doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s impossible.”

 

“It is,” says Kurt, as quietly and gently as he knows how. "But listen to me, sweetheart, please." Kurt grasps Blaine by the shoulders and carefully angles his body inward, tilting his own face to make sure their eyes are locked. "I know you _think_ the reason they don't love you is because you're gay, but I really can't believe that deep down. That's making it about you - and trust me when I say that this has everything to do with them. The reason your parents don't love you is because they're petty, narrow-minded, neglectful assholes who aren't _capable_ of loving you. And it is one hundred percent _their loss_ that they can't."

 

Blaine doesn't react at all, except to blink slowly and drop his gaze away from Kurt and down to the bedspread.

 

"Blaine?" asks Kurt quietly, trying to keep the worry from his voice.

 

Blaine shrugs his shoulders lightly, breaking them out of Kurt's hold. He's wearing an expression on his face that Kurt has never seen, not once in all their years together. It's a smile, sort of, but it's deadly calm and it's weirdly - triumphant?

 

"That's the first time you've ever admitted it out loud to me."

 

Kurt blinks rapidly, wracking his brain for what Blaine could be referring to. "I'm sorry?" he says finally.

 

"That they don't love me," says Blaine, still wearing that strange, indecipherable smile. "You've... never actually said that. Your usual tactic is to argue that they _do_ love me but they're bad at showing it."

 

Kurt freezes. His heart is thumping wildly beneath his ribs and his skin and his heather-gray Rad Hourani sweater.

 

"Blaine, I...I didn't mean-"

 

"Didn't you, though?" says Blaine, with an irritated snort. "I mean, seriously, who are you trying to convince, Kurt?"

 

Kurt shrugs his shoulders wearily before admitting: "I don't really know. Myself, I guess?"

 

Blaine's only reaction is a slight widening of his eyes.

 

"I... think I wanted to convince myself that they cared about you." Kurt stumbles over his words, struggling to express himself in a way that will make Blaine understand. "Because Blaine, you - you - you don't even know how amazing you are. You're _everything_ , and I just couldn't believe that the people who brought you into this world don't see that. I just couldn't."

 

There's a short pause during which Blaine folds his hands resolutely in his lap and casts his eyes downward once more. "And... now?" Blaine asks, his voice as dry as the air around them.

 

"And now?" echoes Kurt. "I believe it."

 

Blaine's head droops down even lower. Kurt watches Blaine's restless fingers picking at a loose thread of his blanket. “So that's that, then," he says flatly. "No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, they’ll never love me. And I guess it’s a relief to know there’s really _nothing_ I can do and that it's totally out out of my hands, but it sort of… sucks, you know? To know that for sure?”

 

Kurt watches and thinks about what _he_ knows for sure. "Honey, I can't imagine what you're-"

 

His sentence is cut off by the familiar wind-chime arpeggio of Blaine's ringtone. Kurt throws Blaine an apprehensive glance as Blaine gets off the bed and crosses the room to retrieve his cell phone from the desk.

 

The phone continues to chime as Blaine makes his way back to Kurt, Blaine's face showing only a calm sort of blankness.

 

"Is it - ?" Kurt blurts out, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his sweater.

 

"Yeah," says Blaine quietly, easing back down onto the bed and holding the phone out, his index finger hovering over the Accept Call key. "It's my mom."

 

_0000_

_0000_

_0000_

 

 “Hi, Mom.”

 

Both boys are frozen, sitting close together on Blaine’s dorm bed, limbs locked tightly in anticipation. Kurt’s chest feels tight with uncertainty and he can feel the shallow pounding of his pulse in his wrists. He can register the sound of Mrs. Anderson’s speech, can recognize the pitch and timbre of her voice, but at this distance he’s unable to discern words or syllables.

 

“The performance went fine,” says Blaine quietly. “Yes. Yeah, I got your text.” A short pause. “Well… I can’t pretend it didn't upset me a little.”

 

Kurt begins mentally drafting the reply email he’s going to send tonight. _Dear Dad_ , it will say. _I have been recently reminded of the fact that you are the single best parent in the entirety of human history. You won’t believe me, of course, but trust me when I say…_

 

“Well, no, it was just – I’d really been looking forward to seeing you two. I mean, I’d already bought the tickets and I’d gotten us reservations for dinner. I was hoping that the three of us could –”

 

Mrs. Anderson’s voice can be heard in the background and Blaine closes his eyes in apparent frustration. “No. No, Mom, I am _not_ trying to get you to pay me back for the tickets.  You really think that’s what this is about?”

 

_…that it’s absolutely true. Your loving son, Kurt._

 

Blaine listens intently for a few seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re telling me the Corbetts wouldn’t have understood that you needed to decline an _impromptu_ dinner invitation in order to watch your son star in a play?”

 

Blaine shakes his head, shower-damp curls spilling forward to partially obscure his face. Kurt itches to brush the hair out of Blaine’s eyes but keeps his hands folded resolutely in his lap. “No,” says Blaine, sounding softer. “I don’t want to fight, either. I just… well, I guess I just wanted you to know. That I, um, missed you – that I _do_ miss you. And that I wish you and Dad could have come.”

 

Whatever Mrs. Anderson says next causes a marked change in Blaine. He sits up straighter, eyes widening in surprise, and he presses the phone more tightly against his ear.

 

“You – seriously?” he says in a breathless rush. “Tomorrow?”

 

Kurt presses an apprehensive hand to his mouth, trying to contain the words that want to spill out of him.

 

Blaine is almost tripping over the syllables in his eagerness to get them out. “Yeah – yeah, there will definitely be enough tickets. The matinées are never sold out. I can save seats for you and dad if you want. I can – yeah, absolutely, I can do that. But Mom, I - I need to tell you that I’m not…” Blaine takes a deep breath. “Remember how I told you I share the lead with my friend Charlie? Well, tomorrow’s his day to play Danny, and my day to be in the chorus. But I - I’m still in a _lot_ of numbers, seriously, I’m onstage at least half the time, and I have a couple of featured dance parts and…”

 

Kurt stares unseeingly at the floor, his chest tight like the pain of a breath held in too long.

 

“Yeah,” says Blaine after what feels like the world’s longest pause. “You don’t have to explain. No, you’re right, Mom. It’s a lot of trouble to go through just to watch me... s-sway in the background.” Blaine’s voice cracks open on the last syllable and god, Kurt _honestly_ might throw up right now.

 

“It’s fine,” says Blaine quietly.

 

Kurt opens his mouth to inform Blaine that what happened is most certainly _not_ fine, but catches himself just in time. Blaine hasn’t hung up yet; he still has the phone pressed tightly to his ear.

 

“I said it’s _fine_ , Mom,” he repeats more loudly.

 

Kurt thinks that’s a hard sell even to someone as determinedly unconcerned as Mrs. Anderson; the naked _hurt_ in Blaine’s voice is unmistakable. Blaine turns and burrows his face tightly against Kurt’s chest and Kurt reflexively tightens his grip, pulling his boyfriend in closer. Kurt realizes with a sharp pang of dismay that Blaine is actually shaking – and he can feel the wetness of Blaine’s tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt, warm and damp where Blaine’s head is resting.

 

Kurt drops a dry kiss to Blaine’s forehead. Seconds later, Blaine shifts away from him, angling his head just enough to be able to speak into the phone.

 

“I’m not upset, I’m – I’m getting sick,” says Blaine shortly, in response to whatever his mother had asked him. “Some sort of… cold or flu, I think. That’s why my voice sounds weird.” Blaine scrubs the back of his wrist across his eyes and blindly reaches for Kurt’s hand.

 

Kurt strains his ears and can just barely make out the words “… _feeling sick… want me to stop by - ?”_

 

The phone twitches lightly in Blaine’s grip. “No,” he says. “You don’t need to do anything.” Blaine’s free hand is wrapped around Kurt’s, and he squeezes Kurt’s hand in a sudden death-grip that sends worried sparks shooting up Kurt’s spine. Blaine takes a deep breath and says into the phone, steady and sure:

 

“I have Kurt to take care of me.”

 

_0000_

_0000_

_0000_

 

It's as though Blaine's words have pulled something taut within Kurt's chest, and the first emotion to strike him is sheer terror.

 

He's not afraid of Blaine, but he's afraid of the truth that's been presented to him - namely that Blaine needs Kurt in ways that Kurt _doesn't_ need Blaine. It's like the axis of Kurt's world has tilted, and for the first time Kurt can clearly see how things must look from Blaine's perspective.

 

Kurt has a strongly supportive family who loves him without reservation. Blaine just has _Kurt_ , and right now the thought of that is making Kurt gravely scared for them both.

 

But for all his faults, Kurt has never been one to back down when he's afraid.

 

He pauses for a second, processing everything he's feeling and taking everything in: He listens to the indistinguishable sounds still emanating from the phone's speaker and looks down at the tear-tracks on his boyfriend's face.

 

Blaine seems barely conscious of what his mother's saying. He's just pressing the phone to his ear, with the rest of him curled into Kurt as closely as their bodies will allow. He sniffs miserably, just a soft intake of breath, and -

 

_Okay_ , thinks Kurt. _Enough_.

 

He reaches down and gently slides the phone free from Blaine's grasp. Blaine hands the phone over mutely, watching without protest as Kurt ends the call, hanging up on Mrs. Anderson mid-sentence. He closes out the screen and sets it on Blaine's nightstand.

 

"Thanks," whispers Blaine. Kurt doesn't think he's ever seen him looking so wrung out.

 

"No problem," says Kurt. He opens his mouth to ask if Blaine's all right, then shuts it abruptly because _of course he isn't, you idiot._

 

"I love you," is what Kurt whispers instead, the words coming out high-pitched and helpless to his own ears.

 

Blaine barely reacts; a slight shrug and a nod are the only signs that he'd received the message.

 

"Blaine?" Kurt tries again urgently. "Listen to me. I love you."

 

Blaine doesn't respond, and Kurt's sure that he's doing this all wrong. He's not _Blaine_ ; he's never been good at heartfelt speeches or moving declarations. He can't melt him into a puddle with his words or turn him inside-out the way Blaine can do to him. The only thing working in Kurt's favor at the moment is the depth of his sincerity.

 

"I will always love you," he tries, channeling the ghost of Whitney Houston.

 

Blaine twists the corner of his mouth down slightly. "I can think," he says finally, sounding exhausted, "of a few circumstances under which you wouldn't."

 

And this is it. _This_ is where they always get stuck. Kurt will tell Blaine what he wants to hear, Blaine will deflect or disagree, Kurt will reassure him, Blaine will deflect again, Kurt will _re_ -reassure him... and the cycle continues.

 

He's no therapist, but it's occurring to Kurt that he should probably attempt to tackle this problem the same way he'd tackle any other problem - starting at the root.

 

"Honey," says Kurt tentatively, after a few seconds of anxious consideration, "I've gotten the impression over the years that when I tell you I love you, you somehow think... that I don't know what I'm saying. Or that I don't know what I'm getting myself into or something."

 

Blaine doesn't bother to deny it, which _does_ break Kurt's heart, even if it also gives him a starting point to work from.

 

"Can you really think that, Blaine?" he asks, striving to keep the judgment from his tone. "Because it's not true at all. When I tell you that I'll always love you, it - it isn't just words. I _know_ what it means to love someone no matter what."

 

Blaine angles his face slightly and opens his eyes to meet Kurt's gaze.

 

Kurt continues. "Just like I know that even if I grew up and became a totally despicable person - someone my dad didn't like and couldn't be proud of - I still know that he would love me. It's unconditional; I don't have to do anything to earn his love or keep it because it just _is_. It's out of his control or mine."

 

Kurt and Blaine exchange a somber look, and Kurt can tell that he and Blaine are both silently acknowledging the truth of the situation: That Blaine has never experienced that first-hand, and that - no matter how long or how well Kurt has cared for Blaine - he simply cannot be a substitute for that particular brand of parental love and acceptance.

 

"Blaine... the best-case scenario for me is us spending our lives together. This," Kurt says, indicating the two of them curled into one another, "is my dream, right here - you in my arms. It's what I want, it's what I'll work for, and it's what I _genuinely_ believe our future will look like."

 

Blaine nods and whispers, "I want that, too," so quietly that Kurt almost doesn't catch the words.

 

"But... I can't predict the future," Kurt says haltingly. "And I've seen too much for me to be able to promise you that we'll be together forever. Something terrible could happen to one or both of us - or one of us could leave the other. I guess we would _have_ to if the other one... I don't know, cheated repeatedly or became a drug addict or a criminal or something."

 

Blaine's eyes are welling up; the tears seem poised to spill over at any moment.

 

"But I need you to believe me when I say, " says Kurt, his eyes boring into Blaine's, his voice made fierce from conviction, "that no matter where you are in the world, no matter _what_ you're doing - even if you leave me for somebody else, even if you end up stealing out of people's wallets for a living, even if you end up hating me or forgetting all about me, there will _never_ be a night when I won't go to bed and have my last thought be: 'God, I hope Blaine's okay.' That day will _never_ come, all right? That day will never happen."

 

Blaine lets out a half-hiccuping breath and wipes the wetness from his face with his left hand, his right hand seeking out Kurt's once more.

 

"You are _so_ loved, sweetheart," whispers Kurt, squeezing Blaine's hand back fiercely. "By a lot of people, not just by me. But even if you doubt everyone else's love - Sam's, Rachel's, my dad's, Carole's - _please_ never doubt mine. It's the thing I'm most sure about in this world-"

 

Kurt cuts off his sentence as soon as he feels Blaine trembling against him. He scoots a few inches down on the bed and pulls Blaine up so that their faces are completely level with one another. He draws Blaine even more closely to him and Blaine responds by wrapping his arms tightly around Kurt.

 

Blaine tilts his face up, a sunflower angling itself toward the sun's rays, and Kurt leans down and presses a soft kiss to Blaine's mouth. It's not a kiss for the ages; it's wet and teary and fumbling, designed mostly to give and receive comfort, but on that level alone it _works_.

 

They break apart only when Blaine's phone starts ringing. Other than a slight tensing in Blaine's back and shoulders, Blaine gives no outward sign that he hears it.

 

"Do you want to answer it?" Kurt asks quietly, his eyes never leaving Blaine's face.

 

"No," says Blaine, returning Kurt's gaze with total calmness and surety.

 

Neither boy makes any attempt to exit from their embrace. They remain as they are, Blaine's hands splayed across the dip of Kurt's waist and Kurt's fingers gently tracing the contours of Blaine's biceps.  The only sounds in the room are the soft whisper of breath, the low whirring of Blaine's window fan, and the arpeggio of Blaine's ringtone as it chimes plaintively from its position on Blaine's nightstand.

 

The caller doesn't leave a voicemail, but a text message is sent about a minute after the phone stops ringing.

 

_Heading back to OH tmrw_ , it reads. _Sorry we couldn't work in a visit this time, maybe catch up soon._

 

A second text follows about twenty seconds later.

 

_Love you_.

 

FIN


End file.
